Knighted
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: "The weight of the world has always been on their shoulders—the Devil's Gate, the apocalypse, Leviathan—but when one of them died, that was truly the end of everything." What happens when Dean wakes up as one of the most powerful demons to date? Demon!Dean. Angel!Cas. Eventual/in-progress Destiel.
1. Part I

Strap on your big boy/girl pants. This is my take on season 10.

AN: This is dedicated to my best friend, Eve, who literally sat beside me as I wrote the remainder of this story. It's a miracle I even finished it. And also a HUGE thank you to a few familiar faces on this site that come back to my page for a second serving. You have no idea how much people like you mean to me in my everyday life. I don't like to admit that I'm dependent on anyone's approval, but partly, it's because of you that I keep doing what I do. You allow me to believe that I can carry these stories as well as those unwritten to my grave.

Alright, enough chick flick moments. Onto the story.

**Knighted**

_"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire." –Ferdinand Foch_

The flames touched higher, engulfing the brooding face of Sam Winchester. His eyes angled at the ground beneath him. He certainly hadn't expected the invocation to conjure such a response. The spell wasn't exactly the easiest to muster.

He'd definitely had better days, ones that he hadn't gotten lost in binge drinking. Imbibing in copious amounts of alcohol alleviated the edge off of his itinerant mind, but it didn't do much for the pain; in fact, he was almost certain that the whiskey was only accentuating his sentiments. Every shot creeping down his esophagus was the price of those nostalgic sentiments; an acrimonious commemoration that kept nagging at him that he had once again screwed his life over.

"_If the situation was reversed, and I was dying, you'd do the same thing."_

"_No, Dean, I wouldn't."_

He had lied again; not only lied to Dean, but to himself. Sam was all too acquainted with the gritty red residue in his fingernails and the overwhelming feeling of determination and trepidation surging like turpentine through him when he made a deal. There wasn't much contrast between then and now; he had liquor burning through his veins and he still felt the familiar sting of self-loathing when he ignited the flame.

Several excruciating minutes passed by when he finally heard a noise—though distant and vague, it was definitely perceivable—instigating from the upper level of the bunker. Sam flew up what seemed like an interminable flight of stairs, heart thrashing vigorously against his ribcage as he soundlessly carded through the possibilities as to the origin of the noise.

Crowley, granted he was the King of Hell, had a reputation for being surreptitious, so it couldn't have been him. Castiel entered in a single swift and lenient move, like a cardinal would alight on a tree.

No, it wasn't a supernatural being, but instead a human.

Dean was awake.

Before Sam could discharge his long-repressed sigh of relief, he was crossing to the other end of the room, heaving his brother upright. Blood was pooling profusely around his limb body. He had his wraithlike hands clenched in fists, curled tightly around his diaphragm in attempt subdue more bodily fluids from escaping his mouth. He went through several trials of eructation, each time increasingly harder to restrain his lungs from surfacing for air. His eyes were sealed shut and his body was slumped over weakly.

The younger brother was shaking him violently on the shoulder with one hand and reaching out to cup his face with his other, tilting his face to meet his. "Dean, oh God, Dean…"

He reiterated this partial phrase multiple times for lack thereof. His sagging head became heavier as more blood began to secrete from his lower lip. Sam shook harder. If Dean hadn't gotten killed hours earlier by that friggin' transformer Metatron, then he definitely was dead now. His olive skin was white and he was completely cold.

Then it all stopped; the blood, the trembling, the one-sided conversations. Dean opened his eyes.

"_Well, well, what do we have here_?" he hissed. His hand, once hanging nimbly at his side, lunged out for Sam. Sam staggered into the bookshelf behind him. Whatever it was, it wasn't Dean. Dean didn't have black eyes and an acute sense of perception.

He angled his head, as if to perceive the thing better. "Crowley?"

The occupant laughed wickedly. "_Why would I want that piece of filth writhing inside me? You should know me better; after all, you _are_ my little brother, Sammy."_

"You're not my brother…"

"_Ouch, Sammy, that really hurts," _the thing said, twisting Dean's bloodied finger into the place where his heart is—or was.

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam growled, grappling for something on Dean's dresser. He had a specific object in mind—that is, if this thing that called itself Dean was in fact his brother—that would ultimately determine his sincerity.

It was a picture—the _only _picture—of toddler Dean and prideful Mary clutching her son. Dean's eyes burned with a sort of imperceptible haze, the kind that only a demon could muster under such an irate circumstance. It was almost as if the younger brother had said _Christo. _Dean's once-emerald eyes flared a ghastly crimson and his hands began to tremble.

He roared an abysmal roar—ambiguous to Sam in the sense that it could either be supposed as a threat or a painful cry. Though judging by the _mere_ fact that his brother was some kind of demon, it was most likely the first one. He never actually thought about the emotions of ungodly creatures—if they even _had_ any. John always taught him to shoot first, ask questions later. But now that his brother was a member of Hell's Bells, it took all of him not to question it now. His sanity wasn't exactly climaxing at the moment and the new notion only further harried his agitated state.

At least that meant that Dean was somewhere inside the black—as if that was reassuring.

Dean—or whatever it was—was coming at him full-fledged. He fisted the lapels on Sam's coat, slamming him farther into the dresser, causing the photograph to cascade beside him on the floor. "_You think you're so special, don't you_?" the thing snarled, baring all of Dean's teeth into a slimy smile.

"Step away from him."

Both men craned their heads simultaneously to meet a pair of sapphire eyes. Castiel loomed over the two figures, but moved even closer to the thing that was imbibing in Dean. It had its head angled in a sickening fashion, fixated on the angel with wide eyes.

Castiel dropped to his knees. "Dean?" He would have seen Dean's true visage if he wasn't running low on grace.

"_Not exactly_, _angel. I'll give you one more hint_." He stood up. His eyes flickered back to the unearthly black color, grin stretching wider across his placid cheekbones.

"Demon," he slurred, exchanging side-glances with the other Winchester.

"_Bingo!_ _Bob, tell him what his consolation prize is_." He snapped his fingers, and in an instant Castiel was on the floor in a predicament similar to Sam's merely moments ago.

"Cas! You son of a bitch—" Sam hollered, heaving his stature from the ground with little strength left (he almost forgot how physically resilient demons were—sex with Ruby wasn't exactly a memory he wanted to preserve). Dean raised his right hand fisted in a tight ball and hoisted him to the wall. When Sam was high enough, he released his grip and held out five fingers in halt, pinning him in place. Sam wriggled—or _tried _to_—_out of the hold, one part of him kind of hoping right about then that he still had some demon blood still streaming through his battered veins.

"_Sorry to cut your lover's per diem short," _he said to no one in particular. He kept his hand raised as he approached the angel on the other side of the room. His eyes blinked back to expose his irises again. He bent down to Cas's level, a pity smile intersecting his haughty facial expression. It wasn't any more reassuring; in fact, it only made Cas churn more blood.

"Why—are you doing this?" Castiel managed through a coated throat.

Dean roared even louder. "_Oh angel, I want you to see the real me when I tell you the truth."_

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cas sputtered through what he hoped was his last round of blood. Dean's smile was dogged, he would give him that. He kept it even as he slithered on top of him, using his knees to straddle the weakling's hips in place.

"_If only you knew, angel," _he said, "_you would sprint for the hills if you knew what he—what I—think about you—" _he rectifiedquickly. His smile was really starting to wear on Cas, which said a lot considering that it's one of the many things that he never grew jaded of; in fact, it was the only thing that kept him from killing himself time and time again.

"I reiterate: what the hell are you talking about?" Dean's breath was tantalizing, trickling down the collar of his shirt onto the bare skin underneath. It was still warm and retained the same Dean smell—century-old whiskey and jacket leather. His eyes weren't helping either—the same jade stones that bared into his soul with the power of a thousand burning suns. But he couldn't be fooled; he knew what lie underneath those beautiful eyes; oblivion—cessation of everything they've ever worked hard to build; now nothing but a dying flame in a pile of withered ashes.

"_Oh angel," _Dean breathed, leaning in just close enough that his forehead barely grazed the bridge of Castiel's nose and he felt the formation of Dean's words at the base of his throbbing lip. "_You're still so naïve, so oblivious to the minor details." _His voice echoed through his burning throat. Not Dean's hand moved to tighten around Cas's shoulder. "_He—I think that's cute." _Not Dean's lips moved up, grazing his chin. The proximity was circulation-cutting.

Then a new sound echoed through the old room—a gunshot. It pierced through Not Dean's shoulder blade. Only he didn't go down; the bullet merely bounced back and popped out, like a rubber ball would off of a brick wall.

He arched his spine like wet cat and laughed sardonically; clearly the bullet was merely a tickle, and a good joke at that. He craned his head to meet his brother's hands, steady on the trigger. "_Et tu Sammy?_"

Cas was about to do the same with his angel blade, but Dean's fingers impeded him at Godspeed. He held the glistening object in his bruised hands. He looked directly at Cas when he said "_Now this on the other hand, would have left a few scrapes..."_

"Funny, I didn't know filth was immune to cherubs," Sam spat, still gripping the gun tightly.

Dean laughed a humorless laugh and lifted his own from the angel. "_Ex-college boy thinks he's so smart_." He turned the blade over in his hand. "_No, this puppy, he won't hurt a goddamn soul... well, minus this vessel."_

"What the hell are you—?"

"_Yeah, yeah, 'what the hell are you talking about?' Was I really this predictable? I mean Jes-_" Not Dean's mouth twitched in pain; he cut himself short. "_Even if you could save me—which you can't by the way—your endeavors would be worthless. If I stab myself right now with this blade, I won't die. But Dean, the sensitive no-good-piece-of-crap Dean; he will. I'm only trying to keep my hands clean to keep up with appearances._" Another cocky grin. "_But if that's a problem for you, then I'd be more than happy to dirty up this suit_."

"You're right."

Cas tried his best to sit up straighter—as if to help perceive Sam's intentions better—in spite of his recent injuries. He could hear Dean's thoughts as clear as day, like a telegraph to his brain. _I wouldn't do that, angel. That stolen grace is running out faster than you know_. "Sam..."

"You're right," he repeated, lowering the gun, "I can't compete with you; I know the consequences already if I do. How about we just forget this whole thing, Dean, (the name was like vinegar spilling from his lips) and you just relax? You've been through a lot...I owe you that much."

Flabbergasted was an understatement. Castiel stared blankly at Sam. If there was one thing that he wished he could unhear in his short time of coexistence with humans, it would have been Sam Winchester telling his demon brother that he owed him something.

Dean walked over to the dresser. Setting the angel blade down, he replaced it with the gleaming object he awoke with: the Cain blade. The veins in his arm lit up red like a Christmas tree and he drew a heavy sigh. He stared down briefly at the figure hunched in the corner.

"_I've got to hand it to you, brother; you've got a whole lot of compassion." _He paused to bend down and wave the Blade like a candlelight inches from Sam's face. "_That's what's going to kill you in the end_."

Dean began to walk out of the room—noting that he nearly punched Cas in the shoulder with his leg on the way out—when Sam called after him.

"Hey, Dean… one more thing…"

Dean turned ever so slightly to face Sam again.

"Cas, could you kindly remove that carpet piece?" Cas stared even more blankly at Sam. Sam nodded affirmatively. Cas lifted the carpet that Dean was standing on.

And there lied a Devil's trap, still fresh with the smell of red aerosol paint. Sam was now the one with a grin plastered wide across his face. He narrowed his eyes at the creature who called himself his brother. He finally collected the strength to stand, halfway at least.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundis spiritus…"

Dean scoffed indignantly. "_Are you kidding_?" He shot his head to Cas. "_Is he kidding_?"

"Omnis satanica potestas—"

"_What is this, an intervention? Sammy, we haven't had one of these since you had sex with that bitch—hmm, what was her name, Ruby?_" He rolled his tongue around his lips. Nothing was happening. Not even a small flinch.

_He was immune to the spell….but how?_

"_Good question, brother_." Sam's mouth dropped. He hadn't said that aloud. "_For as smart as you are, I would have thought for sure you would have figured it out_." He gestured to himself with the hand holding the Blade and snapped his fingers with the other. The ground crumbled underneath Cas. They both turned to find a cleft in the upper ring of the trap. "_I've been knighted."_

* * *

It was all just a bad dream. At least that's what he would like to tell himself when he wakes up.

Dean couldn't be a demon, he just couldn't. He couldn't turn into something that they've been hunting since they were in training undies.

But he couldn't think of a better explanation. He had seen his eyes, bottomless pits eerily familiar to a wormhole in space. He's seen those eyes before, but somehow it was different with his brother. He didn't want to admit that he got sucked into the oblivion when he laid his own on him. He didn't want to admit that he saw a light inside Dean, like a crescent moon dying out in an obscure sky. And most of all he didn't want to admit that he was afraid.

But the picture, the one with Dean and their mom, that had to have meant something. That this thing, this darkness inside him, wasn't permanent; it couldn't be. He knew Dean—better than he knew himself. Dean may have had a dark side but he wasn't a grunt (at least not all the time), he was a genius. Dean wasn't mean, he was kind-hearted. Dean cared more about the welfare of him and Cas more than his own. He would sacrifice his life to protect them, and if that's considered being selfish, then he must be a demon too.

"_You see a light at the end of this ugly-ass tunnel. I don't. But I tell you what I do know - it's that I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand. 'Cause that's what I have waiting for me - that's all I have waiting for me."_

"_You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't - I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it."_

Sam and Cas were standing across from each other in the library, much to either men's discomforts. Dean had left the room and supposedly the bunker completely; however, left no evidence whatsoever that he was ever there. No sulfur, no strange sounds; even the EMF levels were low. He could always do a thorough inspection of the building, but what would be the point of that? If he could leave a bunker warded up and down with demon sigils and death traps, there was no telling what he was capable of doing if Sam found him.

"I mean, I don't know, Cas. If he's a Knight of Hell, he should still be susceptible to demon traps and banishes…"

Cas leaned against the table for support. Sitting wasn't exactly an option when your lungs felt like they were about to spontaneously combust. His voice was even lower now. "I—I don't know. Cain was always the instigator of the Knights. When God exiled Cain, he nearly vaporized Eve and every living thing within a hundred yard radius."

"Good to know," Sam said dejectedly. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know, wait for the world to collapse on itself," he replied humorlessly.

Sam fumbled over his words before settling for new ones. "There isn't a spell that could get that thing out of him? What if I doped him with my blood—human blood? It worked for Crowley."

"Sam, you heard him; he's a Knight now. He's pretty damn far from a demon and just barely below the devil himself. He is Cain, Cain is Dean. He can and he will destroy you given the chance." He leaned in closer to the hunter to meet his brooding eyes. His voice remained staid, almost angry. "And I won't let that happen again. I just won't." He nearly fumbled off of the table when he removed his balancing hand. Sam caught him by the chest. He used his right hand to wrap around his shoulders, heaving him to his feet with regained strength.

"Whoa, man, take it easy." He wasn't sure if he was talking about the previous comment or bouncing off of the fact that his friend looked like death. "Alright, let's get you cleaned up before we do anything—"

"I'm fine," he replied gruffly. Blood was turning crusty around his lower lip. His neck looked like it had been through a beating. He imagined his insides looked the same.

"Yeah, get back to me on that when you can stand," Sam said. He helped him to the kitchen.

Once a safe distance (but what was safe anymore?) away from where a demon could listen in, he grabbed a dish cloth pre-wet and daubed around the more inflamed areas of his throat. Cas repressed a sigh, only because he didn't want to let Sam know that it hurt. He wrapped his hand hanging nimbly at his side on Sam's forearm that was dabbing—an indication that he was well enough to help his own self. Sam obliged, handing him the rag.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "So what was uh—what was that about?" Cas stared vacantly at him. He bit down on his own lip. "Back there, I mean, with uh—"

"I don't really care to venture that right now," Cas replied sternly. Sam couldn't read through his blank expression. He dropped it. Deafening silence hung between them for a long while. It wasn't until Cas squeezed the excess water from the towel into the sink that conversation initiated again. He looked more thoughtful.

"You said you found him with the blade by his side."

Sam nodded. "Yeah—I mean, from what I recall."

"So who put it there?"

And suddenly they were communicating without words. They exchanged enlightened stares. It hit them concurrently. One word was uttered: Crowley.

* * *

Sam led Cas to the dungeon, even though he knew perfectly where it was. In just barely over a year, the three had racked up more notable memories in the house, specifically this room. The King of Hell's imprisonment, Sam's angel expulsion, and the one that pained him the most: Dean's last days. It was still as dark as he remembered—in more ways than one.

The ring was chipped in certain places. Cas scoped the room to find items for a séance scattered haphazardly around the circle. Some were put in proper séance place. He said nothing.

Sam filled in the chalk and ignited the flame once more, praying in a low curse to the son of a bitch that put them in the current position they were in.

Crowley popped in like he was Willy Wonka handing over the golden ticket to a boy with golden ringlets and an angel boy who looked like he just lost his first puppy.

"Evening, gentlemen," he chimed. His thick English accent resounded against the hollow walls. He glanced around the room satisfactorily. "You know, I was in here for weeks and I never once thought about how sexy my voice sounds. I mean the walls just give it this real sultry sound—"

"Do something," Sam growled. His patience was wearing thinner than a thread in a thimble.

Crowley turned back to face Sam. He cocked his head curiously. "I believe I did. You asked for your brother to be revived, did you not?"

"Not like this," he pressed, jaw clenching tightly.

The King of Hell threw back his head. "I'm sorry; I don't recall you being Cinderella, because I sure as hell am not your fairy godmother. You asked for Dean; nothing else, nothing more. I didn't sprinkle pixie dust on him. I put the blade in his hand and he opened his eyes. That was his choice. I merely instilled power into his weak little body."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Crowley tested. "Would a lying man lead a horse to Cain? Would a lying man translate a tablet word for word out of the goodness of his heart? Would a lying man tell you that he actually cared about the person he supposedly didn't do anything for?"

This made Sam's mouth part in incredulity. "What?"

Crowley sighed exasperatingly. "Look, Moose, even if I could do something—which I technically did, but you two morons tend to overlook that fact consistently—I couldn't do anything. Squirrel doesn't want anything to do with me." He exchanged glances with Cas, who was just standing in silent remorse beside Sam, and emitted a shallow chuckle. "Isn't that peculiar? You raise him from hell; he's your butt buddy. I raise him from death; he wants nothing to with me."

Cas pursed his lips; probably to retain tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. Sam's eyes narrowed pitiably at the angel. Then he became enraged—enraged at himself, at Dean (or the way he came back), at the circumstances that he's always forced into, and at the man standing before him grinning like an idiot. He took a giant step into the circle with the demon.

"No, you look," he said bitterly, barely grazing Crowley's suit pointing his slender finger, "I could give a crap less about your sob story. We all have one. The story I want to hear is the one where you fix this goddamn mess…"

Sam stopped mid-sentence as a figure flashed in-between him and Crowley.

_Dean._

"_Sorry to cut this short, brother. Looks like I'm going to need to borrow your demon_." He shifted his gaze to Crowley, who was smirking from ear to ear.

Crowley laughed his last laugh in front of the two men. "I lied, ain't that a bitch?"

And in a flash, the room went black.

To be continued...**?**


	2. Part II

Fifty shades of red; that's what Hell was—fifty shades of dark red leaching from perpetual cellblocks for miles on end and fifty shades of noxious smells he would never identify. He remembered a time when it was all disconcerting—a time when he had actually _loathed_ the thought of being confined to a single block, stooped in the darkest corner and feeding off of who-knows-what from the cold floor, scheming of ways to burn the place and everyone in it to the ground (figuratively, of course).

The place still felt the same—and smelt the same at that—but Dean hadn't felt the same. He was no longer slumped over, passed out in a corner somewhere (that's what he was doing when he _wasn't_ scheming of ways to slaughter everyone); Dean was the ringleader. For so long, he's wanted to be in charge of something, feel the power flowing through his veins like currency. He needed this.

"So, how is it? Is it up to par since the apocalyptic era?"

It was almost as if the King of Hell read his mind… _could _he do that? He was still fairly new to this demon thing. The last coherent thought he had had was prior to his Turning—something along the lines of tasting rich metallic between his teeth—or maybe it was a hankering for human flesh. That one scared him the most at first because he was looking at his brother while envisioning his calloused hands plowing into his chest. He saw Sam's soul, could almost taste the kinks and scars aplenty, stitched and sown together by the meagre handiwork of Death and a curious rubicund imprint of a large hand adorned by a severed handiwork of God: _Castiel_.

_ "You gave us order, Castiel, and we gave you our trust. Don't lose it over one man. This is justice." _

_ "No. I can't." _

He had to smile; _my angel. _He'd certainly love to test his loyalty now. He would love to take a bite—if not just run the brim of his nose over his skin once more—of him. Imbibing in Sam's battered soul, he had to digress, wouldn't be nearly as much fun. Sam was broken, fragile… _weak._ Cas was strong—both psychically and cerebrally—angry, passionate; all of the things that he would love to feel withering away in the palms of his hands as he destroyed him. And if he couldn't, then he would try again; beat him down like a dog with a tether, each time harder and with less humanity.

_Humanity_, he had to laugh at that too.

"_Definitely_," he said. He scoped the bordered-off walls once more. It hit him. _"Well, there is one thing missing; it kind of wanes on the whole ambience…"_

"What's that?"

Dean rolled his head around his neck. "_The son of a bitch that dragged me down here, Alastair, where is he?"_ His eyes flashed back to black. He had done that to the prisoners—some of them hunters he recognized from ages ago—in the cells when he and Crowley filed in. They would give Dean a repulsive look. Most of them probably thinking something along the lines of _what the hellisa Winchester doing back in hell, hasn't he seen enough? _Dean would return their piqued stares by smiling impishly and violently shaking the metal bars they inhabited, revealing his black pupils. It shut them up fairly quick.

"Why?" Crowley stopped in his tracks to eye the younger man interestingly.

Dean shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. _"I want to see if he's the same worthless piece of shit he taught me to be. You know, I read somewhere that a good percentage of people never change, even under intense circumstances."_

"I guess you're living proof of that."

Dean's smile came out. "_I guess so. But you know when they do change, when they expose who they really are? It's when they've got one foot in the grave."_ He paused, his smile fading slightly. "_I don't really have much experience as a demon yet, but that's when uh—when Sammy's died, or Cast—"_

Crowley cut him off swiftly, temper rising. "Look, I'm not your grief counselor, capiche? And don't walk around here thinking that you own the place now that you went dark side. Hello, I'm Crowley, _King of Hell_." He gestured to his face. He had more scruff than Dean last remembered now that he really looked at him. "And _especially, _don't scare the bullocks out of my detainees. That's my job."

Crowley strode ahead, leaving Dean to catch up. "_Oh c'mon, not even a commemorative t-shirt_?"

"You have more important matters to attend to," Crowley said. He came to rest at the end of the straight-shot corridor to two massive doors, heavily chained on each end. It was somewhat eroded, but considering the place that it was, it didn't come as a surprise. Unhinging the deadbolt on the doors revealed a group of men and women—all demons, judging by their black auras. They all shared a commutative stare at Dean.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "_Who are they?_"

Crowley's thin lips pointed into a smile. "Dean Winchester, say hello to your army."

* * *

It was always astounding to Sam how quickly one click turned into a seven hour drive. It wasn't like he could complain; at least he finally had his hands on the Impala's smooth leather coxswain without his brother smacking them severely off. Dean's persona changed like the seasons, but if there was one aspect about him that hadn't, it would be his adherence to the vehicle—_Baby_. He hadn't heard Dean call it that since, well, yeah. He didn't want to admit that he missed Dean professing his love to an inanimate object as much as the next guy. But he did, immensely. He doesn't care how weird it sounded—he would sell his soul to hear Dean talk to his car again. But that would be redundant.

Cas had sat in the backseat—he couldn't handle sitting in the front; the only time he was permitted to ride shotgun was when he and Dean were alone together.

When they arrived at their destination, Cas said that he should be a pace ahead of Sam. Said he didn't exactly know how stable a man was after years of "self-contained incarceration".

Sam went along with it, but couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness sidling through his body. He knew that Cas knew Sam could manage himself. He _had _endured Perdition after all; longer than Dean even. The only reason that Cas's defenses were up was because of said man. Dean was his everything; his reason for reason, his partner in crime. He probably felt the need to defend the younger hunter because he was all that he had left if Dean really was gone forever. And yeah, Cas loved Sam. And yeah, Sam would be there for him—always—but _damn_, he didn't want to imagine not only him going on without his brother, but Castiel too.

The weight of the world has always been on their shoulders—the Devil's Gate, the apocalypse, Leviathan—but when one of them died, that was truly the end of everything.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Sam asked warily, glancing around the countryside.

Cas replied sharply to the inquest, "I am an angel of the Lord."

Sam raised his arms in defense and said no more. A swift knock and the door swung open momentarily, almost as if the proprietor was expecting them. But he wasn't.

"Who the hell are you?" The door was barely open enough for a fly. Sam forged a smile—which took just about everything in his power to muster—and began with his postmortem examination.

"Hi, sir, my name is Sam Weston"—he didn't want to use his real last name in case he was hunted down after this—"my brother um—he paid you a visit a couple months back regarding—"

"Why are you talking like that?"

Sam's eyes tightened on the faint illumination of the figure behind the doorframe. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Cut the 'sir' business, Sam Winchester," he said shortly, "I know who you are."

Sam tried to maintain his eyes from widening in shock. "I—uh—I'm sorry, how to you know me?"

"You and your brother—Dean—right?" The door stilled on his foot, unmasking a little bit more of his face. His gray beard was far from kempt and his eyes—or one eye from what he could see—was dark charcoal. "I usually can't remember names but he wouldn't stop talking about you. I wish I could say the same about my brother before I killed him."

Sam shifted his stance. "Right, th—that's him. So you remember giving him the Mark?"

"Of course I remember," Cain retorted bitterly, "you think I just hand out my burden like a sweepstakes giveaway? I just didn't want to be reminded. I'm in the middle of churning my honey."

"Look, would you please just listen to me; my brother's in danger—"

Cain scoffed. "Of course he's in danger, he bares the Mark!"

Cas stepped in, nudging Sam to the side. "Let me handle this before he cuts out your tongue," he whispered. Sam gawked from the two of them. "Cain, my name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord. My friend here, he just wants some answers to his pathetic inquires,"—Sam tossed him his famous bitch face—"if you could spare us that we would be happy to let you get back to your honey."

Whatever Cas had said differently, it caused the ex-Knight to swing the door open. "Castiel," Cain said, testing the name rolling off of his ancient tongue, "I know you, too. A fallen angel, if the pants fit. I've heard much about the war in Heaven, how you were the one who started the whole thing, built a chain of command to take down the rest of the cherubs."

The angel coughed. "I guess so, I mean—"

"Don't guess; please, humor me. 'Rebel angel'—would have looked good on a Knight's nameplate."

Cas smiled. Sam couldn't tell if he was actually flattered or just feigning his belief in the words. "Well thank you, but like I said this isn't about me, this is about Sam. Dean is very…"—he settled for an ambiguous word: "ill."

"Castiel, I like you, but don't take me for an idiot. Don't think I haven't heard about your… fondness for that human." He laughed flavorlessly. "And here I thought it was all talk—an angel sacrifices his vessel for an ape? Please. But here you are, at my doorstep asking what you can do to save his undersized life. Now I'm definitely a believer."

Cas's temper rose. "The Mark, it's turned him into this, I don't know—"

"Cold-blooded killer?" Cain said, gesturing to his rags. "Yes, I'm familiar with the concept of what the Mark does."

Sam jumped in even angrier. "Then why didn't you tell him before you 'handed' it to him?" Cas rested his hand firmly on his shoulder.

"You must not know your brother as well as he thinks, Sam," he stated, "because I tried to tell him, but he didn't accept the warning label. Said he would rather just have the Mark and deal with whatever came after."

"That _does_ sound like him," Cas said quietly.

Cain exhaled exasperatingly. He spoke to the both of them but kept his eyes trained on Cas, whom he obviously liked more. "Look, I didn't force Dean to do anything, he chose to take on my burden," he explained, "and it's not turning him into a killer, it's only enhancing what he is."

"He's not a demon!" Sam spat. Cain ignored him.

"It's enhancing a guise that he's always had. He probably thinks that the Blade is making him stronger, correct?" Sam nodded reluctantly. "Well it's not. It's doing just the opposite: it's poisoning him. There's no cure, and there's no impediment. I don't envy the weight that he carries, I truly don't." Sam exchanged a jaw-clenched expression with Cas, who remained, well, expression_less_. Cain shut the door. They began walking back to the car.

"Son of a bitch," Sam cursed, once an earshot away from the bordered house.

"Yes, I'm afraid that's Cain for you."

There was a long silence between them until they reached the Impala when Sam paused on pulling the handle. "Hey, Cas…?"

"Yes, Sam?" he replied from the other side.

"We were just at Cain's house, you know, like, _the _Cain, Father of Murder."

Cas nodded. "Yes, I believe we've established that."

"Yeah, I mean—why weren't you more scared?" he asked curiously.

Cas gave him probably the most shrewd response that the Winchester would ever hear: "Sam, I've died three times, one of which case I had Leviathan souls writhing inside me—Cain is nothing."

Sam chuckled, _actually _chuckled for the first time since the recent turn of events. "Touché." He was about to step in and start the car when another thought hit him like roadkill. It ceased his short-lived laughter. "You know what?"

"What's that?"

"Both of the demons that we've talked to have claimed that they didn't 'force Dean to do anything'; that he took on everything all at once because he wanted to."

Cas knitted his eyebrows together. "Well, is that really that surprising? I mean for as sacrificial as you two are, I'm surprised that God hasn't stopped trying to save you."

"Cas, you save us," Sam corrected.

"Even so," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Sam shifted again. "No really, though, I mean yes, Dean is a stubborn ass. But I feel like there's more to this story, like there's something we're not seeing…"

_"Could it be me?" _a voice loomed from behind.

Sam turned around swiftly to find Dean, same smile strewn in the same measly fashion from hours ago across his face, waving at him. Sam was prepared this time, prepared to take him down with everything he had left in him. He dove in for a swing, but something was wrong. He wasn't swinging anymore—let alone at any_thing_ and Cas wasn't beside him.

Everything was as it had been when his brother had died: dark and alone.


	3. Part III

For a moment's pause, he thought he was dead. In all his eons of being a celestial being—a being of light—he's never been in such obscurity. This was what he imagined it was like inside the vessel of a blind man, prevailing darkness. Like the blind man that he had saved when he had Leviathan thrashing inside him. For some reason, he couldn't remember anything prior to that moment when he was saved. It was like the monsters were deliberately conserving that moment for him, a moment—and the only moment, he imagined of bliss—that he had experienced at the time. But yes, he had fleetingly seen—if you could call it seeing—through the eyes of that man before liberating his soul. He'd seen it all, from the rise and fall of David and Goliath to the Wright brothers sailing through the sky like it was water. _Oh how proud they had been to soar thirty feet off of the ground_.

But darkness, that was something he had circumvented at all costs. What was that called in humanity—_fear_?

But this darkness was the worst of all. He wasn't fearful of the darkness itself this time, but instead of the darkness that lied within another soul significant in history: Dean Winchester.

He may have had little grace remaining in his frail vessel—_God, _he could only imagine what Jimmy must feel about all of this—but he still had enough to see what Dean was becoming. It was consuming all of him, literally. From head to toe, his aura was glowing in vibrant hues of red and black. The more red that consumed him, the more that his special abilities—the ones given when one was "knighted", as Dean had called it—were detracting his humanity.

As for him, well, he hadn't been meddled with yet—_yet_, that was the key word. The chains around his arms were agonizing. He figured Sam had felt the same way.

_Sam—oh God, Sam, where the hell are you?_

"Cas…" came a faint voice from the left of him—_was it left_? What was direction, really? Had he even heard Sam's voice in the darkness or was it just another figment of his imagination tantalizing him? He was so tired.

It wasn't until the lights went up that he saw—_sight, oh sweet sight—_Sam, partially politically correct. Yes, he was to the left of him, but instead of bound to a chair by circulation-cutting metal, he was hunched over the corner of the room, curled body facing the doorway. His eyes were either sweating profusely, or he was crying. He'd never seen the Sam cry. For him to cry, something bad must have happened, something _really_ bad.

He wasn't facing him. _Sam, _he wanted to say but his throat was dryer than sandpaper, _Sam, listen to me, what happened? My damn eyes aren't functioning properly. Are you okay? Are you injured?_

Wait—metal walls…the lingering odor of metallic… it could only mean one thing:

They were in Hell.

"It's the third one… third one…" Sam's voice was small, but reverberated off of the walls nonetheless. When Cas finally managed some form of words, enough that _Sam_ was tangible, Sam finally craned his head to the angel in the chair. _Yes, Sam, follow my voice. Don't fade away on me, not yet._

"S—Sam, what is it? Third what?" he choked. Sam narrowed his eyes at Cas, as if he had said something completely blasphemous.

"Dean—I saw him—b—but it wasn't him—"

_Dean? _He was on full-alert now. His vision was still hazy, but he could still see the younger Winchester. He was shaking, a lot. "Sam, use your words…please. Where's Dean?"

"Not Dean!" Sam cried, throwing out his arms. They were knotted with purplish bruises. "It—it wasn't Dean, it was someone—some_thing_ else—it attacked me. They sent the third one in, but it was different—it gave me these…"

Sam said no more for a long moment. "Who's they?!" Cas demanded. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. He was just so tired.

Then he understood. Another figure stepped into the room, boots wallowing on the cold tile. It was discreet for such a long time that it was deafening to his virgin ears. It was even worse when the thing roared so loud, he could have sworn by the grace of God that the chair beneath him shook, propelling him at least a half an inch off of the ground. It was even less comforting hearing the voice.

_"Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Winchester is in the house!" _Dean or whatever he was (still unwritten) was coming toward the two of them. His gallant smile was really starting to wear on Cas. He bent down to Sam's level, head pressed close enough to his face to kiss him. _"Is everyone enjoying the show so far?"_

Then, the first miraculous thing happened. Sam's crying ceased, even if just for a few seconds, to curse at the leering demon. "Go to hell_."_

Dean remained the same close proximity to Sam's face and roared his loudest laugh yet. That was completely intentional; intention being to shatter Sam's eardrums. Cas even cringed.

_"Oh Sammy, I'm already there… and so are you." _

Sam's eyes widened in horror; Cas knew that Sam didn't take to Hell as Dean had. When he raised Dean, he saw that he was comfortable with what he had done, torturing innocent souls—which came as a shocker at the time—but Sam? When Cas raised Sam, he was as damaged as a bird without its wing and as frail as without its feathers. His soul was scratched, clawed, beaten, prodded, poked at, and he hadn't once given into the same temptation that was offered to him. But it debilitated him in his time down under, and eventually, some of the splinters that he found were self-inflicted.

But Dean, Dean always found some comfort in the dark for one reason or another; it was something he cared not to venture after years of knowing the man. So it was no wonder why he adapted so well to being a demon, as much as it pained him to say. He hunted evil entities for over a decade. He presumed that that had something to do with it; an unearthly thing on earth that he could relate to on some personal level. Demons were battered, broken, much like the man he raised.

But that was the thing, Dean wasn't broken, never was. He just always thought he was. He tried to save him, multiple times. He'd even heard a voice in his head: _Dean Winchester is saved. _Maybe physically because he was alive_, _but as he saw the man before him now, he could certainly say that that was nothing but a lie.

But that didn't mean he would give up trying, never.

_ "There's a plan B, but I don't think you'll like it too much…"_

_ Sam was leaning against one of the four library pillars that bordered the enclosed area. He had his arms folded flatly over his broad chest. "Try me."_

_ "There's a chance that—under the circumstance that I have him under my authority—I can…" Cas trailed off, eyes transitioning to the patterned tile._

_ "What?"_

_ Cas sighed softly. "I can instill some of my grace inside him with a sigil. I can't guarantee that you'll have your brother back. By bare minimum, it'll restore his sentiments..."_

_ "Well that's better than nothing, right?" Sam said, hope rising. _

_ Cas shook his head and forced his eyes not to avert Sam's gaze. "Not always," he said miserably, "I wouldn't know for sure, it hasn't been done in the history of Heaven."_

_ "Which means—?"_

_ "I can't guarantee your brother will accept the grace or… survive."_

_ "How much do you have left?" Sam asked quietly. He knew the answer._

_ Cas's mouth cowered, "Enough to sustain myself…but not enough to survive the spell."_

_ "We'll find another way," Sam said finally, running a weary hand over his face, "just give me time—"_

_ Cas inched forward. "Sam—"_

_ "No, Cas, I'm not losing you over something that may or may not work!" Sam pushed. His eyes were brighter than he last remembered._

_ Cas dared a few inches closer until he was almost nose-to-nose with him. He started the first sentence passively, and then moved into forceful aggression. "Sam, I love you, I really do. But don't think I'm going to spend my last days arguing over how I should use them. I'm going to do this, with or without your approval because that's your brother and my best friend out there." He strapped his tears to the lids of his eyes. "If I'm going to die, it'll be by the hand that saved me from myself."_

_ Sam nodded, and forced everything he had into looking at Cas. But he never said okay. "How are you going to take him down?"_

"Hey, _asshole_," Cas shot, "why am I not lying on the floor? Why don't you beat me too?"

Dean shifted his attention to the attesting angel and raised an eyebrow. Lifting himself from Sam, he sauntered over to Cas with brimming amusement. "_Oh angel, don't worry, you'll have your share. I have something _real _special cooking for you."_

"What in the bloody hell is going on?!" a voice detached bellowed. They all knew exactly who it was before the figure stepped into the room.

_"Don't worry, Crowley," _Dean hissed, _"I have it all under control."_

_ "_'Under control'_?" _Crowley reiterated quietly, throwing his head between Sam, Cas, then finally resting on Dean. "I leave you alone for one minute, and you bring home these flannel-fetish nightmares?!" He crossed his arms furiously. "I can't believe this… I just can't _believe_ that you are stupid enough to do this. I mean, you are stupid, yes, but not so much that you completely disrespect me and my kingdom after I took you under my wing out of complete pity for—"

Dean twisted his hand. A loud snap to Crowley's neck and his small body fell to the floor. Dean shot his head back to his captives.

_"Anyone else care to speak their mind?"_

Sam did, apparently. "Who—who are they?" he said, raising a weak finger to the entrance. Outside stood a dozen figures, heads all simultaneously parted in confusion at the dead King lying on the ground.

Dean turned around. _"Oh them, they're nothing… well, not yet." _Another greasy smile. "_Not until I train them_."

"Train?" Cas said.

"_That's right; I have an army now, angel. You probably know what it feels like to have a cult following, one that will do absolutely _anything_ for you."_

"You wouldn't—" Cas stopped himself short. He had to remind himself that this was demon Dean. He knew the consequences of questioning his authority—any authority for that matter. Disobeying Naomi came with a price, a price to kill. He could still recall with acute vividness the thousands of bodies he slayed with Dean's face etched on them. Naomi was proud. That is until it came to reality, and he couldn't kill the real one. Just like now.

_"You catch on quick, angel," _he said, bending down to congratulate him with an innocuous—or what he hoped was innocuous—tap to his chin. _"Now, less talking; let's skip to the real fun, shall we?"_

Before Dean could exemplify the word fun, Sam was running—partly staggering with the new apertures across his body—past Dean to the horde of demons. He grappled for Ruby's knife in his bloodied coat pocket. The demons weren't as friendly as they looked moments ago when they were unsheathing their own knives and lunging at the Winchester. Sam fought back relentlessly, for as beaten as he was.

Two heads in, he turned around and yelled, "Cas, now!"

Cas relinquished from the bound, and pounced on Dean like a lion, as Dean had hours earlier in his bedroom. Dean writhed underneath him, yelling and biting. He straddled him in place, trying hard to ignore the fact of _who _he was doing it to.

_"Who are you?"…. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition…"_

He saw Sam out of the corner of his eye, head plummeting in despondency, if even for a second, before another demon latched onto him. Cas tried his best to push away the thought that Sam wouldn't get to bid him a proper farewell. He unsheathed his own weapon: his hand, carved in his blood, the sigil that would ultimately determine the fate of both men.

_ "I should have never broken your wall Sam; I'm here to make it right."_

Cas plunged his hand over Dean's mouth and sited the incantation. Dean's hands were clawing at the lapels of his trenchcoat and mouthing something elusive; he tried hard to ignore that too. His knees buckled further into the spell. His eyes flashed a bright red, then blue. He bled the colors from bright beams of tears spilling disgracefully from his sockets. Cas turned away. He couldn't bear to look. A projection of Enochian filled the unattended room, and then it was all over—including Castiel.

_"Cas, you child, why didn't you listen to me?"_

Sam was crouched in the opposite corner of the room, eyes and ears sealed shut. When the earsplitting language had ceased completely, he glanced around and saw every demon he was fighting lying dead in the same fashion as two other familiar faces: Cas and Dean's. Castiel's body was slumped over Dean's; his own knees buckled inward, head buried in the crook of the other man's neck. They were both stiff.

He reached for Castiel first, nudging him harshly on his side. It caused Cas's body to do nothing more than collapse beside Dean on his back. He saw his face, saw how pale it had become. There was no need checking his pulse. He was gone.

There was no stopping them now. Cruelly, tears came cascading down his face. Yes, he knew the cost of the spell, but that hadn't meant he was prepared to see his friend's lifeless body flash before his eyes. He would never be ready for it.

He stared at him for a long while, each tear shoddier than the first. He averted his fixation on the angel to his brother's body. His mouth was wide open, face stained from the cosmic bursts of explosion tumbling down them moments ago. That's how Sam's face felt—charred by a thousand pieces of exploding sun.

He buried his face in his hands.

This really was the end.


	4. Part IV

Sam Winchester hadn't asked God for anything in seven years. When he was young, and even well into his teenage years, he thought God was the one looking after his family after his mom had passed. He liked to say that his dad was invincible (which in toddler babble, translated to _inbincle)_. John came home with scratches galore, but never once complained about the pain. He always avoided going to the doctor's, said it wasn't anything that he couldn't take care of with a few instruments lying around the house. And he was right. Every day he would come home tattered and bruised, but over time his wounds healed, along with the notion that he'd ever had them in the first place.

Dean was always the same way… or tried to be. After Dad's stroke of luck had come to a bitter end, Dean unseated his role as Mr. Invincible. And for a while, he was the new Superman, acted like his own abrasions were nothing.

Until once in a blue moon, kryptonite would plague his heart. Eventually a wound was dug deep enough that he was bleeding out and it was up to Sam to mend it.

That same night he said a prayer: _Please, look after my brother, he's scared._ He spoke to God, although he must have unwittingly made a deal with a crossroads demon because something happened to Dean.

_ "I've been doing some thinking, and... well, the thing is... I don't wanna die. I don't wanna go to hell."_

And then he died in his arms, along with his faith in the man upstairs. That is until he realized that he was putting it into the wrong man.

When he met Castiel, it was after he had raised his brother from Perdition, and while he may not have restored Dean's faith—which he didn't blame him for; it _was_ kind of an unceremonious way to meet a guy—he certainly did a number on Sam. He saved his brother and he made him believe again.

Just like now. Dean's eyes flickered open. And they weren't black.

"Dean?" he breathed, striking his feeble body against his, "Dean, oh my—you're alive…" He held him even tighter with each pained word. Dean's eyes knitted together, confused at the callous gesture. Thankfully, he hadn't remembered a thing.

"Um… hi?" he replied flatly. Sam's shoulder butted Dean's face. The older Winchester recoiled in pain. He released him apologetically, allowing Dean the time to comprehend that half of his face was smoldered in a new degree of burns. Sam must not have paid much attention when he heaved him into his arms.

"_Fuck," _he cursed bitterly, touching his tender face."What the hell did I do, dump a pitcher of boiling water on my face?!"

Sam had to laugh. Still his brother was unfazed by physical pain.

"W—what happened? Where's Cas?"

His laughing terminated when Dean shifted on his side and witnessed the angel's body. It took Dean a good moment to process the fact that Castiel was unmoving. When he had, his eyes widened in dismay—_green, _never in his life would Sam praise a pigment so vigorously. His mouth ran unattended, scrambling for words. But none would come; his best friend was strung out next to him, bleeding profusely from his hand.

He underwent his first degree of separation: doubt. "Cas," he laughed, nudging his shoulder playfully.

The second trial hit him harder. He dropped to his knees beside him, yelling his name. The third followed fast in pursuit. He reached for his bloody hand and placed it within his nimble one, holding it close enough that his face became soiled in it. He got on top of him and dragged his shaking ciphers up and down his chest, as if searching for another logical explanation as to why he was lying on the cold, hard floor. His eyes began perspiring as if his sockets were set ablaze (again).

"Come, on, Cas, you're an angel of the Lord," Dean cried, "you're supposed to be invincible!" The word struck Sam right in the hamstrings. Dean pounded on his chest multiple times, each time his tears becoming heavier on his face. When Cas hadn't shown a sign of response and he was too weak to beat on him anymore, he buried his face in his neck. The smell of Cas—wonted trenchcoat and aftershave—tickled his nose and that pain was even more unbearable than the scorches on his face. He wept even harder, one hand cradling his coat collar, the other supporting his still neck.

_ "He's gone, Sam."_

His voice came out in the same broken fragment of a statement that it had been when that bitch April plunged her knife through his chest.

Dean pulled himself nimbly from his collarbone to plant a kiss on the inside of his neck, then his forehead, and finally, the most incapably, his lips. He held onto that embrace for as long as he could, something he had savored the thought of doing for so long; he wasn't about to lose it because he didn't have some damn self-discipline.

Though the Winchesters couldn't hear, a voice rang inside the angel's head. And though it came from somewhere in the faraway distance, Cas couldn't hear it clearer if it were bellowed in his ears: a single phrase from a chorale of brethren: "Dean Winchester is saved!"

**END**


End file.
